


A Harmless, Necessary Cat

by Crowgirl



Series: Welcoming Silences [48]
Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Non-Chronological, Not Beta Read, Pets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 02:02:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7295008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s probably a better way to introduce a man at the end of a long week to the basket of kittens in his sitting room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Harmless, Necessary Cat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kivrin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kivrin/gifts).



Foyle looks down at the basket and Paul resists the urge to shift so he can see his face. There’s probably a better way to introduce a man at the end of a long week to the basket of kittens in his sitting room than letting him walk in on them fresh from the train -- but Paul honestly hadn’t been able to think of one. 

Sharon, still on her knees, has no doubts. ‘Aren’t they lovely, Mr. Foyle?’ She picks up one of the tiny mewing balls of fur, barely bigger than her hands, and cuddles it under her chin for a moment. 

‘Kittens,’ Foyle says slowly, taking off his hat and dropping it in the nearest chair.

Paul forces himself not to fidget. ‘Yes. I -- they’re probably my fault.’

Foyle glances at him, eyebrows high, mouth quirked, and Paul rolls his eyes. ‘I forgot to get her back in for a couple of nights when I was working late.’

‘I think it was that big black tom who comes in from the Adams farm sometimes,’ Sharon says, picking up another kitten and letting them snuggle together in her hands.

Tweed watches her calmly from her position stretched on her side in the shallow basket lined with an old blanket. Paul had felt more than a little ridiculous putting it together -- he remembered his sister making similar things for her dolls when she was young -- but Tweed seemed to love it. She’d established herself there with the kittens when they were practically still newborns. The kittens, who could just about stagger, could get about a yard away from her on the sitting room floor. Most of the time she could reach out and snag them back with a well-aimed paw.

There were seven, none bigger than the palms of Paul’s two hands. Three were colored like their mother, two were a mix of black and a dark amber brown with no white to speak of. The other two were white and black splotched. 

‘Dad says I can have one when they’re old enough.’ Sharon carefully replaces both kittens and gives Tweed a scratch behind the ears before getting to her feet. Paul takes a half-step back, still slightly startled that Sharon isn’t eleven any more and can nearly look him in the eye when she stands straight. ‘That’s all right, Mr. Milner, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, of course. Sure you don’t want two?’

She grins. ‘I’d love two but I think dad would probably disown me.’ She dusts the knees of her trousers, wipes her hands together, and says, ‘You’d probably like a quiet evening since Mr. Foyle just got home.’ She smiles brightly at them both and is gone. 

Paul waits for the sound of the back door closing before saying, ‘I’m never quite sure how much she’s put together.’

‘Oh, enough, I’d say.’ Foyle drops down on one knee, slipping a hand under Tweed’s chin and rubbing at the underside of her throat. She chirps at him and rolls even further on her side as if to show off her kittens to better advantage. 

Two of them had been sleeping braced against her forepaws and promptly flop over onto their backs when she moves. Neither of them wake up; one stretches and yawns extravagantly before curling back up in a tight ball. The two Sharon had been playing with are conducting a lively wrestling match by Tweed’s back paws, rolling over the other three who join in with gusto and tiny squeaks.

Foyle laughs and glances up at Paul. ‘Have you found any other homes?’

Paul shakes his head. ‘Not yet.’

‘I suppose we could always ask the Adamses to take one or two -- since their tom was at fault.’ Foyle is looking down at the basket where Tweed has wrapped herself back around her tiny family and is purring loudly. Carefully, Foyle reaches down and scoops up one of the black and white kittens who had been shoved out of the warm circle by the wrestling match and was trying to clamber back over Tweed’s hind paw and not having much luck.

The tiny scrap mews almost inaudibly and wraps itself around Foyle’s thumb. Foyle chuckles again and backs to sit down in the empty armchair, gently unwrapping the kitten from his hand and letting it clamber over the front of his waistcoat. It spraddles itself out over the middle buttons, each paw heading in an apparently entirely different direction, and meows up querulously at Foyle. 

Paul watches and makes a mental note of the pattern of splotches -- it’s quite distinctive, with a great black smudge over one eye and cheek.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _The Merchant of Venice_.
> 
> Based on this photo from [elizajane's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane) family archive.  
> 


End file.
